Down in a wine vault underneath the city
Two old men were sitting; they were drinking
booze.
Torn were their garments, hair and beards were gritty;
One had an overcoat but hardly any shoes.
Overhead the street cars through the streets were
running
Filled with happy people going home to Christmas;
In the Adirondacks the hunters all were gunning,
Big ships were sailing down by the Isthmus.
In came a Little Tot for to kiss her granny,
Such a little totty she could scarcely tottle,
Saying, “Kiss me, Grandpa! Kiss your little Nanny!”
But the old man beaned her with a whiskey bottle!
Outside the snowflakes began for to flutter,
Far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen,
Not another word did Angel Nanny utter.
Her grandsire chuckled and pledged the Whiskey
Demon!
Up spake the second man; he was worn and weary,
Tears washed his face, which otherwise was pasty;
“She loved her parents, who commuted on the Erie;
Brother, I'm afraid you struck a trifle hasty!
“She came to see you, all her pretty duds on,
Bringing Christmas posies from her mother's
garden,
Riding in the tunnel underneath the Hudson;
Brother, was it Rum caused your heart to harden?”
Up spake the first man, “Here I sits a thinking
How the country's drifting to a sad condition;
Here I sits a dreaming, here I sits a drinking,
Here I sits a dreading, dreading prohibition,
“When in comes Nanny, my little daughter's
daughter;
Me she has been begging ever since October
For to sign the pledge! It's ended now in slaughter—
I never had the courage when she caught me sober!
“All around the world little tots are begging
Grandpas and daddies for to quit their lushing.
Reformers eggs 'em on. I am tired of egging!
Tired of being cowed, cowering and blushing!
“I struck for freedom! I'm a man of mettle!
Though I never would 'a' done it had I not been
drinking—
From Athabasca south to Popocatapetl
We must strike for freedom, quit our shrinking!”
Said the second old man, “I beg your pardon!
Brother, please forgive me, my words were hasty!
I get your viewpoint, our hearts must harden!
Try this ale, it is bitter, brown and tasty.”
Said the first old man, “Hear me sobbing.
“Poor little Nanny, she's gone to Himmel.
Principle must conquer, though hearts be throbbing!
Just curl your lip around this kimmel!”
Down in a wine vault underneath the city
They sat drinking while the snow was falling,
Wicked old men with scarcely any pity—
The moral of my tale is quite appalling!